


Dust Rose

by anactoria



Series: Frozen Stars [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Enemies With Benefits, M/M, Magic-Users
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 18:23:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12917607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anactoria/pseuds/anactoria
Summary: Two years after his last encounter with the King of the North, Sam's just about convinced himself that letting Lucifer live was a mistake. That is, until a mission goes wrong and brings up all the feelings he's been denying.





	Dust Rose

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting on my hard drive since July, eep. I wasn't able to find a beta for it, so apologies for any errors.

Sunset had come to the oasis, and Sam was still waiting. 

The dry desert heat didn’t weigh on him like the humidity of the far South, but it was still much more than he was used to, and he shifted where he sat every few moments to keep drowsiness from overtaking him. Maybe the fabric-draped circular bed hadn’t been the most practical hiding-place, from that point of view—though at least the diaphanous curtains would help keep him from being recognized too quickly. 

He sighed and pushed his hair off the back of his neck for what felt like the hundredth time. Wearing it this short, and unbraided, still felt odd, his head a little too light. He’d never get used to it.

Still, at least he shouldn’t have long left to wait. Lucifer’s agent would be here soon.

It had taken Sam and the others long enough to get here. Listening to rumors, sifting fact from fiction, watching movements to and from Michael’s court until they were certain that Uriel was Lucifer’s spy. Resistance members had trailed him from Arcadia, finally ambushing him on a deserted stretch of road four days’ ride east of the capital. He hadn’t given up the information easily, but eventually, they’d gotten a few hints of Michael’s future plans from him. And the name of the place he was to meet with one of Lucifer’s other agents to pass on what he knew.

A house of ill repute in a small oasis town in the eastern desert, as it turned out. This was the sort of outpost that mostly served as a place for travellers to break their journeys across the sands. Local traders made their livings selling the essentials for survival along the way—and drink, and the dizzying sweet tobacco that was said to bring on pleasant dreams, and company to warm one’s bed for a night or two. Here, customers could pay to spend the night with one of the girls or boys of the house, or simply rent a room with all sorts of exotic accoutrements. (Lengths of silken rope; a discreet vial of oil beside the bed; and other objects whose purpose Sam didn’t like to guess at.) There were tales involving such places—tales of nobles involved in illicit affairs who travelled miles to meet their lovers in secret. The reality was rather more tawdry—but the proprietress had been pleased to accept their silver for exclusive use of the place for a few nights. She’d also been wise enough not to ask questions.

The plan had been figured out weeks ago. Tamara would wait downstairs, posing as the brothel-keeper’s sister. If Lucifer’s agent asked questions, she’d claim that the owner had been called out of town on urgent and unavoidable business. Ruby and the others were stationed nearby, ready to step in if Sam gave the signal. And Sam was to lie in wait in the private room designated for the meeting, overpower Lucifer’s agent, and carry her away to be questioned.

Knowing both Michael’s and Lucifer’s next moves would be an invaluable advantage. At best, it might allow the Resistance to seriously weaken them both.

Sometimes it still felt strange, discussing things in such abstract terms. As though the men and women they spoke of were pieces to be moved around a board, not people.

Sam would never admit it in front of the others, and especially not in front of Dean, but sometimes he still dreamed about the King in the North; and sometimes, he woke from those dreams smiling. He couldn’t have said why.

He’d joined the Resistance after his father died in Michael’s service. Out of anger, yes—but also out of a conviction that he could not shake. No man or woman had the right to such absolute dominion over the lives of others. Human beings were fallible, and such power would have been deadly in anybody’s hands. Michael and Lucifer had proven it so, squandering lives on the battlefield over what amounted to a family squabble.

And yet, when Sam had been assigned the task of entering Lucifer’s service and stealing the magic he unearthed, it had been easier to think of the kings in the terms bards and chroniclers used to speak of them. Beings apart from the common mass of humanity. Gods, or monsters. 

Leaving Lucifer alive hadn’t been part of the plan, after all, and it was easier to think about slaying a monster than killing a human being. But then Sam had met him, face to face, and he’d been… a man. One who spoke with uncommon cleverness and wielded magic with uncommon skill, it was true—but still, in the end, just a man.

It should have been easy. The constantly shifting ice fields were the perfect place to hide a body. He could have taken Lucifer by surprise as he completed his spell—or afterward, while Lucifer lay unconscious on the ice. It wasn’t that he’d lacked the opportunity.

It was just that they’d talked. Lucifer had approached him in the market; had looked at him as though he were something rare and precious. He’d talked to Sam like an equal. That was unusual enough. Sam had still felt the burning need to prove himself, at the time—to convince his comrades that he was every bit as capable as they, despite his tender years and the fact that he’d never served in an army before. He’d still feared that they would never see him for himself; that he would only ever be Dean Winchester’s little brother.

Lucifer had _seen_ him, somehow, without knowing who he was. It had made Sam bold, and he’d said things that might have gotten him thrown in prison, had the wrong person overheard. Lucifer hadn’t broken character; hadn’t even seemed displeased. Rather, he’d regarded Sam with a kind of fascination, as though he were a bright student who simply needed to be allowed to find the correct answer by himself.

If Lucifer had known who he was, or his mission, Sam might have thought it a brilliant ploy. Because he’d found himself unable to follow through on the initial plan. Luckily, Max and Alicia had furnished him with a sleeping-draught, just in case he was unable to catch Lucifer unawares at the ice field. He’d found another use for it, and he’d left without Lucifer’s blood on his hands.

Alastair had been another matter. Sam had remembered Dean’s war stories about him, and hadn’t been able to regret the necessity of slitting his throat. Sometimes, though, in his darker moments, he wondered. Would he have found common ground with the great torturer, too, if they’d only spoken? Was the difference between man and monster only a matter of perspective? What did that say about Sam himself?

Most of the time, he did his best to dismiss the questions, or at least to make them serve a purpose. He’d been taken in by Lucifer’s harmless act, and that was all. If he had his chance again, he’d rectify his mistake.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted his train of thought, and Sam sat up straighter and shook his thoughts of Lucifer away. He needed to be ready.

The door opened, displacing a breath of air that rustled the drapes. Sam held his sitting position, straining his eyes to see through the gauzy fabric as somebody slipped through the door. A hazy figure, through the drapes and the low lamplight, but the sight of it was enough to give Sam pause. Something wasn’t right. He tensed, squinting at the person who’d just entered.

Desert-dwellers wore cloth wrappings over nose and mouth to protect them from the dust when they rode, and the newcomer was dressed in the local fashion, face still hidden. But both Lucifer’s most trusted were women, and though Sam had never stood face to face with either of them, he doubted that Lilith or Meg would have reached past his shoulder. This was the outline of a man, and one perhaps tall enough to look Sam in the eyes without lifting his head.

Besides which, there was something unsettlingly familiar about him. The movements; the way he regarded Sam with his head on one side for a moment, before he pulled the wrappings from his face and said, softly, “You cut your hair.”

Sam moved without conscious thought. Between one heartbeat and the next he was on his feet, his hand at the hilt of his sword. Yet some part of his mind refused to acknowledge the danger. It held him back from lashing out, even from raising his blade in self-defense.

It was the way Lucifer looked at him. Not exactly warm—but without the flashing anger he’d expected. More like… fascination. He was _smiling_.

Sam swallowed dryly, and finally found words. “You don’t exactly look surprised to see me.”

Lucifer gave a small shrug, and began to wind up the wrappings. His movements were slow and sure, and he made no move for his own weapon. “I knew it would be you.”

“You knew.” Sam let out a breath, his shoulders sagging. Disappointment settled somewhere in his chest, a heavy weight behind his ribs. They had been betrayed. He’d get no information tonight—rather, he’d be lucky to escape with his life. 

Lucifer finished what he was doing, and laid the neat ball of fabric down on one of the small decorative tables that dotted the room. “The woman downstairs,” he said, inclining his head toward the door. “Rather well-spoken for a brothel-keeper, isn’t she?”

Tamara had been a scholar in Arcadia, once. Sam took a steadying breath and hoped she had already made her escape. “You associate with a lot of brothel-keepers?” he shot back, instead of answering. “You might be surprised.”

Lucifer lifted an eyebrow—he’d noticed the deflection, then—but nodded. “My father used to bring us here, sometimes.”

“Your father?” Sam blinked in surprise, momentarily forgetting the danger of his situation. “Why?”

“It’s a convenient place to stop on visits across the border, and not one anyone would expect.” Lucifer paused, half-smiling, though the candlelight left his eyes in shadow. “That, or my father’s appreciation for hot weather and pretty women. How do you think I knew about this place?”

For the most part, the old king had been well-loved. The thought of his visiting houses like this one, even when travelling in disguise, was a surprise. Though perhaps it shouldn’t have been. Kings expected their every whim to be obeyed, and so did people who bought their lovers. Perhaps this place had been high-class, once.

Despite himself, Sam snorted. “There’s more here than hot weather and whores, you know.”

Lucifer inclined his head. “I’m aware.”

That likely wasn’t a good thing. None of Sam’s comrades were local, and they’d had to buy the townspeople’s help. Lucifer probably knew this place better than any of them.

Sam cast a glance toward the window. Almost dark, but the lamps hadn’t yet been lit outside. If he hadn’t emerged by the lamplight hour, the others would know to leave without him. They might still stand a chance of escape. 

For the first time on this mission, Sam found himself glad that Dean was elsewhere. Ruby was his friend, but he knew she would do the sensible thing and lead the others to safety, too pragmatic to risk all their freedoms for one man.

Lucifer followed his gaze toward the window. “You’re wondering how many of my men are out there. How soon they’ll sweep in and take the town.”

“Yeah.” There was no use in lying.

Lucifer stepped closer, his eyes still fixed on Sam’s, and Sam swallowed, hard, as they came face to face. He looked the same as he had done two years ago, more or less. Still wore his hair short, sticking up where he’d run his hands through it. Still dressed in white, though this time it was desert linens, and not the cloak of white fox-fur Sam had stolen from him. (He still had it, back at headquarters, though he would’ve sweated himself to death wearing it in this heat. He’d told nobody where it came from, and nobody had asked, though sometimes he saw Ruby eye it curiously.) Lucifer’s gaze was sharper, though, those ice-blue eyes regarding Sam with piercing curiosity instead of idle appreciation. 

“They’re waiting for my signal,” Lucifer said, then. He paused a moment. “I wanted to speak with you first.” 

That was good, though maybe not for Sam. It gave the others a window. If he could just keep Lucifer talking until lamplight, they’d be able to get away. It was all he could do from in here.

_And you’ll get to speak with him again_ , supplied a small, treacherous voice in the back of Sam’s mind. He’d be lying if he told himself he felt no curiosity, no desire to find out how much of the man he’d met two years ago was real. (If he would still kiss with the same single-minded intensity, still curl into Sam’s hands like a cat seeking warmth, still close his eyes like he was praying when he came.)

Sam shook the thought away, angry with himself. The memory of Lucifer’s touch still haunted his dreams sometimes, but letting it spill into his waking hours and compromise what was left of the mission would be unforgivable.

“You wanted to speak to me,” he parroted, instead of voicing his thoughts. “Why?”

Lucifer threw him an amused look. “You’re surprised that you made an impression?”

Sam huffed. “No. But I thought you’d want my head on a plate. Not… chit-chat.”

“There’s time for both,” Lucifer said, pinning him in place with a look. He was still smiling, but Sam wasn’t sure he was joking.

He swallowed hard. Time: that was the main thing. The longer he could keep Lucifer talking, the better the others’ chances. “How did you know?” he blurted.

“Sorry?”

“That I’d be here.” Sam looked Lucifer in the eyes, forcing himself to hold his gaze steady. 

Now that all the fakery between them was cleared away, Lucifer’s scrutiny was unnerving. Sam felt as though the very center of his being was on show, as though the King could have flayed him open with a look. And yet for all that, it wasn’t exactly malicious. Somehow, it put him in mind of his first glimpse of Lucifer, across the market square back home. How he’d regarded the ordinary people like exhibits in a zoo or paintings hung in a nobleman’s halls, as though they weren’t quite real to him. Sam thought his curiosity had been genuine nonetheless. Now, on the receiving end, it still felt genuine—but no less dangerous for it.

“You don’t have anything to lose,” Sam said, holding his nerve. “If you plan to kill me anyway, then what harm could telling me do?”

Lucifer gave him an indulgent smile. “You’d have me give away my secrets like the villain in some bard’s tale, just before the hero swoops in and frees the prisoners? Name all of my spies in the Resistance so that you can root them out?”

Sam tried for a smile, though he was afraid it looked more like a grimace. “Pretty sure no hero’s coming to rescue me.” 

Lucifer nodded. “And in any case, I’m afraid it’s nothing so useful. No secret network of informants—just a simple spell of my own devising. Uriel was to trigger it if he was found out by Michael; a simple warning sign that would let me know he’d been compromised. When the warning came, and I knew he should have left Michael’s court four days ago—well, it wasn’t difficult to infer that the Resistance had found him.” A shrug. “Simple, really. So, no, I don’t think telling you will do me any harm.”

Some small part of Sam’s mind that still held out hope of escape noted that the spell actually sounded rather useful. If he ever did get out of here, he should ask one of the Resistance magic-adepts to try devising something of the kind. The twins would probably relish the challenge.

Another part of his mind—the one that was less hopeful, more acutely aware that this might be the last chance he had to ask questions—noted that Lucifer had only given him half an answer.

“Logic,” he repeated, and Lucifer gave him a patient nod, like a tutor humoring a slow student. “That might’ve told you your spy had been caught. But you said you knew it would be _me_.” Sam frowned. “I don’t get it. It’s been two years since we met, and I’m hardly the most important of your enemies.”

For some reason, that made Lucifer smile. “Two years,” he echoed. “I take it that means I’m not the only one keeping track.”

Sam blinked—whether at the feeling he’d been somehow caught out, or at the somewhat un-kingly admission, he wasn’t sure. 

Before he could speak, though, Lucifer went on: “And you, Sam Winchester, are more important than you know.”

It didn’t really matter that Lucifer knew his real name. Still, hearing it spoken in that smooth voice did something to Sam’s insides, a nervy flutter beneath his ribcage. All of this suddenly felt a little more real.

And the danger a little less defined, a little more looming.

Sam swallowed. “What do you mean?”

Lucifer regarded him a moment, the curious, birdlike tilt of his head disconcerting. Sam had thought there was something familiar about the gesture when he first saw it on Castiel; now, he understood why. As far as he knew, Cas had never spent more than a few moments face-to-face with his half-siblings, but perhaps it was a family trait nonetheless.

“You didn’t feel it,” Lucifer said. “When we last met.”

It wasn’t a question, but Sam shook his head anyway. “Feel what?”

“Magic,” Lucifer said, as though it should have been obvious. “The first time we touched, when you gave me that frozen star. You felt nothing pass between us?”

“Should I have?”

“I suppose not.” There was something regretful in the way he said it, and Sam felt a flicker of disappointment, the same way he used to when he failed to measure up to one of his father’s standards, back before he learned to reject them. 

“But I’ve been having dreams,” he heard himself say, and regretted it the moment it was out of his mouth. He should have been worrying about how to escape Lucifer, or how to distract him long enough to buy time for the others. Not about how to impress him; not about how to rekindle the fleeting connection he’d felt two years ago, when they were both still lying to each other.

Lucifer’s eyes widened with interest, though, and Sam couldn’t help the small glow of satisfaction that he felt.

“What do you dream about, Sam?” There was something knowing in it, and Sam pushed away the more inappropriate thoughts that sprang to mind. Skin against skin; clever, capable hands moving over him in the dark. Those things weren’t relevant now.

“I dream about—fire, sometimes,” he admitted, with a small frown. “There’s a castle. The land outside is green. I think it must be somewhere in Arcadia, but it’s nowhere I’ve ever been. You’re there. And outside it sounds like a battlefield—” He trailed off. The dreams only came once in a blue moon, when he was troubled, but they were always accompanied by a frantic pulse of urgency, the need to do something before it was too late. If only Sam had any idea what that something was.

“It’s the future,” Lucifer told him. “Or one version of it, anyway.” His voice was steady, even light, and he half-turned away, idly running his fingers over the crystal vial of oil that sat on the nightstand.

“A prophetic dream?” Sam blinked. “I don’t have those. I’ve never even had any magical training.” He broke off there, conscious that he’d given away something real about himself.

Lucifer didn’t comment on it, though. He gave a one-shouldered shrug, and said, “But I have. Maybe you didn’t feel the connection, but it’s there. You’ve just proved it.”

Sam stared at him, bewildered by his calm. “But if that’s the future—or if that might be the future—then how do we stop it?”

Lucifer turned back to face him, his expression thoughtful. “That was your first question? It didn’t occur to you that if we meet again in the future, that guarantees your survival tonight?”

That made Sam blink in surprise. It hadn’t occurred to him, true—but the screams of battle he heard in his dreams, the sight of a castle in flames; those things bespoke the deaths of dozens, maybe hundreds. To put his own small life ahead of them all would have been unconscionable.

“What does it matter, if that’s where we end up?” Again, Sam frowned. “You do want to stop it, don’t you?” His insides clenched, the possibility that Lucifer might think otherwise coming into focus in his mind’s eye. He’d fallen too easily into speaking to Lucifer as though he were just another person, not one who thought his own pride worth more than the lives of his subjects. He was trying to appeal to the King of the North as he would to a comrade. Sam looked down, internally scolding himself for losing sight of his situation so easily.

Lucifer didn’t answer his question. “It’s not simply a matter of stopping things,” he said, his voice still perfectly calm. “That isn’t how destiny works. It isn’t a map on which we just choose a different route. Even I can’t read it clearly.”

“A seer could.”

Lucifer gave him that patient look again. “Well, yes. I consulted one two years ago.”

“So? What did they say?”

Lucifer lifted one of the small gemstone ornaments on the windowsill and held it up to the lamp, the colors in it shimmering for a moment before he set it down. A gentle breeze stirred the drapes at the window, the slow scented breath of the evening suddenly seeming an intrusion. “That our destinies were entwined, but not settled. She couldn’t furnish me with a clear picture of the future; just the assurance that we’d never escape it.” He sounded surprisingly unfazed.

“Well, that’s helpful,” said Sam.

Lucifer smiled and picked up the next trinket on the sill: a carved stone cat figurine, a figure from local mythology. He gently brushed the pad of his thumb over its head, as though petting it. “Not particularly. But aren’t you curious?”

“Curious?” Sam stared up at him. “That’s all you’ve got? So, what, you’re just planning to let this play out? You don’t want my head, or to lock me away in your dungeons so I can’t get in your way?”

“If I were to let you go now, we’d end up here again soon enough.” Lucifer set down the cat. “As I said, there’s no escaping it.”

The last trinket on the window ledge was a piece of rock. It was sandy-coloured, sparkling faintly, and covered all over with ridges as delicate as petals. Surely no human hand could have done the work unaided; and since a brothel in the middle of the desert was unlikely to pay the steep prices for magical work, Sam guessed the strange formation was natural. Lucifer looked at it with cool, abstract curiosity, the same way he had everything else, and Sam couldn’t help but think back to their first meeting. He remembered watching Lucifer as he made a show of visiting each tradesman’s stall, looking the merchandise over idly, occasionally glancing at Sam as he circled closer. He’d moved through the world as though untouched by it—and apparently, he still did so now.

But _Sam_ had touched him. He watched Lucifer press a fingertip to the edge of one of those stony petals, and remembered how it had felt to have those hands on him—curling in his hair, tracing the muscles of his chest, stroking him to completion while Lucifer sucked a bruise into his skin. How it had felt to touch in turn, Lucifer shuddering apart under his hands and his mouth, pale skin flushed red even in the cold of the far North.

He shook himself to banish the memory, garnering an amused eyebrow-raise from Lucifer.

“Do you always touch things that don’t belong to you?” he blurted, for the sake of distraction.

It was a stupid question. As though Lucifer had ever had to consider it; as though anybody had ever told him no.

Lucifer turned to face him, though, his curiosity sharpening, focusing in upon Sam. “It bothers you.” His voice was mild; there was no hint of offense in it, and for the first time tonight, Sam didn’t feel as though he was being laughed at.

He blinked, but made himself meet Lucifer’s eyes. “It’s rude.”

“Hm.” Lucifer tilted his head again. “Or it angers you that I don’t require permission. It would, I suppose.”

It should have been dismissive—You’re just another one of those Resistance rabble-rousers—but it didn’t sound that way. Still, Sam let the line of his mouth harden. “Yeah, it does.”

Lucifer raised an eyebrow. “Still brave.” 

He’d been reckless last time. Telling Lucifer to his face that he thought kingship unfair could have been suicidal, under other circumstances. Sam couldn’t truly bring himself to regret it, though. It meant there had been _something_ honest between them back then, even if it had only lasted a moment.

Now, Lucifer held the strange little rock up to the lamplight, where the specks of mica in it glittered like tiny gems. For a moment, he seemed to hesitate. 

“Tell me,” he said, then. “Going to bed with me. Was that part of the plan?”

He narrowed his eyes, studying the trinket instead of looking at Sam. For the first time, it occurred to Sam that maybe he was nervous about the answer.

Sam didn’t reply straight away. He cast a glance out the window, taking advantage of Lucifer’s distraction. The lamps were still unlit.

“No,” he admitted, at length. Then paused. “Neither was leaving you alive. You know, in case you were wondering.” 

The moment it came out, Sam regretted it—and didn’t, at the same time. It felt like an admission of weakness. Lucifer would probably see it as such. Still, it was the truth. Three years in the Resistance had taught Sam that the truth was a rare thing; precious, and to be held onto tightly when found. 

And the gleam in Lucifer’s eyes when he turned back to Sam—it wasn’t contempt. Satisfaction, maybe. Or more than that.

So maybe the memory was less unpleasant than Lucifer would’ve liked to admit, either.

Sam paused, taking in their situation, time ticking away as the light faded outside, and in the back of his mind, the germ of an idea came to life. Seducing Lucifer hadn’t been part of the plan last time. But maybe, this time, it could work. It could buy the others some time.

And if that sounded a little like an excuse in Sam’s head, well. This was no time to question it.

Lucifer set the strange rock back down, the lamplight touching the edges of the strange formation and making them stand out like the petals of a furled-up rose. 

“What is that?” Sam asked, nodding at it. He let his voice soften, his curiosity shade through. 

It was for the sake of distraction. That was all. But when Lucifer turned to smile at him, his heart still skipped in his chest.

“A dust rose,” Lucifer said, and he plucked the rock from the ledge and held it out to Sam. “They’re common here.”

It was rough in Sam’s hand, still warm from sitting on the window ledge in the desert sun. He turned it over gently, stroking its rough edges with the pad of his thumb, and Lucifer went on:

“Nobody really knows how they’re formed. It’s possible there’s a vein of magic somewhere under the oasis, but if it’s there, it hasn’t yet been reached.” Lucifer reached for the lamp and snuffed it out, and the sunset light caught the rose instead. It almost glowed, touched with orange-red. “But people don’t like uncertainty, so there are stories.”

Sam looked up at him from the corner of his eye, and gave a small smile, then hoped that it didn’t look as nervous as he felt. “Are you going to tell me one?”

The fading light caught Lucifer’s eyes, and for a moment they reflected back the setting sun in miniature, tiny twin dying stars. The light caught his hair and the side of his face as he crossed to the bed, and for a moment he looked unearthly in the dim room, a creature of flame and ember, not flesh and blood. 

He sat beside Sam on the bed, then. Not at the same intimate distance as last time they were together, but close enough that their knees touched; close enough for him to reach across and touch the dust rose in Sam’s hand, their fingers brushing softly in the dark.

“You’ve heard of the Hana?” he said.

Sam frowned. “They’re some kind of a local legend, right?”

“Some say they’re the ghosts of travelers lost in the desert. Others say they’re the spirits of the desert itself, born from the sun’s rays and formed into the likenesses of veiled women.” Lucifer’s smooth voice took on the measured cadences of storytelling easily, and he spoke the words as though from long familiarity. Somebody must have told him this story more than once. Perhaps, as a child visiting the oasis with his father, one of the local people pressed into service as attendant or childminder had shared it to keep the princes amused. “They haunt the edges of the oasis, for they can’t enter the human world, and their presence warns travellers of approaching storms.”

Sam couldn’t help his curiosity. “Have you ever seen one?”

Lucifer nodded, one corner of his mouth twitching up in a smile. “I was very young. I don’t think she saw me, and she’d blown away on the wind a moment later.”

His hand had gone still in Sam’s, his eyes distant with remembering. There was a sadness to the look, and Sam felt a faint pang. He must have been here with his father, with Michael and the other princes, before the war. The loneliness of those first few months after Dean went to fight in Michael’s army alongside their father was still vivid in Sam’s mind. He couldn’t imagine the ache of never speaking to his brother again.

When they were boys, Dean had hoarded the stories their father brought back from his travels to repeat to Sam during his long absences, when one village household or another would take them in. The old king’s armies had travelled far and wide, though war had been rare during his reign—but the stories always ended the same way. Father and Uncle Robert and Ellen and William would slay the wrongdoers, rescue their victims, and ride home victorious, the royal standard flying bright above their heads. 

It had all sounded so simple then—but of course, they were only stories.

“The story says that one of the Hana was on her travels, circling the oasis.” Sam blinked at the sound of Lucifer’s voice and pushed the memory away. This was no time for brooding over his childhood. “It was evening. On her way, she encountered a beautiful young man lighting the lamps at the edges of the village.”

Maybe it was coincidence, the way Lucifer’s eyes flicked toward him as he said that last part, how his smile deepened. 

“She approached him, they talked, and soon enough they began to fall in love. But Hana are forbidden to enter the human world, and humans can hardly survive alone in the desert. It’s the same tragic story told the world over.”

Lucifer paused, looking at him sideways again, and this time Sam caught his eye. “So, what happened?”

“What do you think happened?”

“Well, I guess they didn’t live happily ever after.”

“You’ve heard this one before, I see.”

Sam smiled, despite himself, and nudged Lucifer with his elbow. “Wouldn’t make for much of a story, would it? So are you going to tell me how it ends, or…?”

“The young man’s family had arranged for him to marry a human woman. He was deeply unhappy; but his family were poor, his intended bride rich, and his sister suffering from the sleeping sickness. They needed to money to pay a healer. So he walked to the edge of the village at lamplight one last time, and told his beloved they could no longer see one another.  
A lesser woman might have been angry, but she had only sympathy for his plight. She kissed him goodbye and walked away into the desert.  
The lamplighter married the woman his parents had decided on, had a family, and grew old. And once a year, on the spot where they had first met, as he made his rounds he would find a dust rose in the sand.” Lucifer reached out again, clasped Sam’s hand in his own, and closed it around the dust rose. “Some say they’re the kisses she never got to give him, calcified and left behind as gifts.” For a moment, so briefly Sam wasn’t sure he hadn’t imagined it, his expression turned wistful.

Then he smiled again, and Sam blinked. “Somehow I didn’t have you figured as sentimental,” he managed, at last.

“I said it was a story. I never said that I believed it.”

Sam huffed out a laugh, and looked down at the dust rose in his hands. “Of course.”

“The locals probably don’t believe it either, but they seem to enjoy telling it.” Lucifer nodded at the dust rose. “The young people here give them to their intendeds at festivals.”

“Huh.” Sam looked up at him. “Like frozen stars?” 

Lucifer nodded, and Sam went still at the memory. How he’d walked away from the edge of the ice field north of his village, counting his paces so Lucifer would have time to begin his spell, to focus on the magic and forget about Sam.

It had been such a simple plan. Wait for Lucifer to finish the incantation and then put a knife in his back. Take the vial of magic; let the ice formations swallow up the body. But then there had been the way Lucifer’s eyes went distant when he said, _I guess you might say I’m the black sheep of the family_. Sam had understood that. 

He’d been young enough when he realized he was expected to follow his father into Michael’s army. Dean talked about it as though it was the only thing anybody could ever want; but as soon as Sam was young enough to understand that it was his destiny, he understood that he didn’t want it. He’d always been greedier for learning than for action, peering over Dean’s shoulder as he learned to read. 

Southerners tended to think all in the North illiterate, and there were certainly families in the village who thought it useless to teach their children letters. Father had thought it less important than their learning to fight, but Uncle Bobby had insisted. They’d both been quick studies. The difference was that for Dean, study was a means to an end; a way to learn about the distant lands he would travel to one day, the monsters he would fight. Sam had found himself hungry for knowledge itself. It felt like power, and when he learned there were those out there who studied magic, it shone brighter still. 

But for Father, it had been a betrayal. They’d barely spoken in the years before his death.

He knew Lucifer had once been thought certain to rule the kingdom after the old king’s death. Suitability was more important than age, and Lucifer was the king’s favorite, his best beloved. Nobody truly knew what had occasioned the old king’s change of heart, but the rift had been unmended at his death, and the kingdom split down the middle. 

It was difficult to sympathize with the machinations of kings, but the pain having never reconciled? That, Sam could understand, and the understanding made Lucifer human. He could no longer tell himself he was slaying a dragon. 

He’d walked a little further than he intended, and that was when a glint atop the ice had caught his eye. A frozen star, glittering like an icy blossom on the ground. He’d stopped to collect it, and the beginnings of a plan had started to form. 

Sam knew he should regret the whole thing. With Lucifer dead, the conflict might be going very differently now. His army would have weakened—the mercenaries scattering, the loyal followers perhaps clinging to their cause and their hatred of Michael, but with a body-blow dealt to their faith. The Resistance would have been left with only one enemy to face, not two.

Of course, the same would have been true of Michael. He might have turned all the force of his armies against them; more furiously because they had killed not only his enemy, but his brother. And with Lucifer sitting beside him, sunset light in his hair and eyes the pale blue of Northern skies, Sam found that he couldn’t wish him dead.

“I suppose you left it in your lodgings up north,” he found himself saying. “The frozen star, I mean.”

Lucifer blinked at him—then gave an opaque little smile. “Actually, no.”

“Then you threw it overboard as soon as you found passage to the mainland.”

“I thought about it,” Lucifer admitted. “But no. I still have it. It never melted.” There was a glint of amusement in his eyes. “Though I’m sure that has nothing to do with the superstition you told me about.”

Sam recalled that conversation pretty clearly. He’d brought up the local tale about sweethearts exchanging frozen stars, about them only melting when the love ran out, as a distraction—and it had worked. But with Lucifer close beside him, the warmth of him tangible through the layers of their desert clothes, it was hard to deny that perhaps some small part of his act had been real. And perhaps—

“Why?” Sam blurted out, before he could stop himself. Lucifer shot him a surprised look, and he felt a blush color his cheeks. “I mean, why’d you keep it?”

“Hm.” Lucifer’s expression was distant for a moment, as though he were thinking carefully about his answer. “Sometimes I’m not sure myself. I meant it to remind me of something.” He turned his gaze on Sam again, then, and it wasn’t amused anymore. It was intent and measuring; curious but careful. The same way he’d looked at that vein of wild magic beneath the ice, the first time he saw it. “The problem is, I still don’t know exactly what. I don’t like not knowing things, Sam.”

It could have been a threat, but it sounded as much like an admission, and that made Sam blink in surprise. Truth be told, he’d expected Lucifer to ignore his question, or brush it off with some glib aside. He hadn’t thought he’d get an honest answer, never mind a thoughtful one.

Sam hesitated a moment. Then decided he could be honest in return. “Yeah, I can’t help you there,” he said. “Don’t think I know either.”

Lucifer smiled at him. Gentle; not laughing at him. “Of course, there might be a simpler answer.”

“Yeah?”

He nodded—and then, watching Sam’s face carefully, leaned in and pressed their lips together. It was a careful, curious kind of a kiss, soft as the evening breeze.

This wasn’t a simple answer. Really, it raised a whole lot more unanswerable questions. 

Sam kissed back anyway, because _that_ —well, if he was honest, that had never been a question. 

He’d dreamed about Lucifer since the last time they’d met, and it hadn’t all been castles in flames. He’d dreamed of Lucifer above him, beneath him, always pressed close against him, gasping out his name as their bodies moved together in the dark. And not once, in those dreams, had Sam ever turned away.

Besides, he reminded himself, this was part of the plan. This was the distraction he needed right now.

Lucifer gave a thoughtful hum against his lips. “You’re thinking very hard, Sam.” He didn’t pull away, stayed close enough that his breath whispered across Sam’s skin.

Sam took a breath, and looked back at Lucifer with what he hoped was a spark of challenge. “You could distract me.”

That pulled a laugh out of Lucifer. He gave an ironic little dip of his head and murmured, “As you wish,” before closing the gap between them again. 

They kissed slowly at first, open-mouthed and breathless. Sam felt heat travel up him slowly, touching the back of his neck and burning in his cheeks, and was thankful that the lamp was out. Things were fuzzier in the dark. He could let his eyes close and concentrate on sensation. That was safer. 

He could forgive himself for being drawn into a quick fuck when the enemy he needed to distract came in a handsome package and somehow knew just where to kiss his neck to make him shiver with desire. He might not have been able to forgive himself for the other feelings, the ones that whispered beneath the surface of his conscious mind and told him this was already more than that; and that maybe Lucifer’s talk of destiny hadn’t just been talk. Sam closed his ears to their suggestions, and parted his lips to Lucifer’s kisses instead.

Lucifer’s mouth was soft, his touch careful when he reached up to brush his thumb along Sam’s cheekbone. It was easy to get lost in it, the slow slide of lips and tongues, the trail of Lucifer’s fingers across his shoulders, down the length of his spine, eliciting a warm shiver like the touch of magic. There was care in it, and that was strange. 

Or maybe not. Last time, before he knew who Sam was, Lucifer had been careful to tell him that he could leave, that nothing would be expected of him. It had surprised him, and Sam had wondered since if it had just been part of the disguise, as false as the rest of Nick-the-merchant. But still Lucifer didn’t push him, his touches gentle and undemanding—and when Sam opened his eyes, that steady blue gaze was trained on his face with open curiosity.

Lucifer didn’t simply want his acquiescence. He wanted Sam to want this.

The thought touched things in Sam that were better left alone. Time for a change of approach.

He took a deep breath and deepened the kiss, pressing into Lucifer’s space and wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him there. Lucifer opened up to him easily, giving a low, appreciative hum and nipping at Sam’s lower lip. Sam breathed in sharply at the small sting of pain, the jolt of arousal it sent straight to his cock. Then the gasp turned into a growl as he shifted his weight, pressed Lucifer back onto the bed with its mound of overstuffed cushions.

Suddenly two years ago felt like yesterday. It was clear as the present—how it had felt to be on his knees with Lucifer’s hand in his hair, the taste of him as Sam sucked him down with two fingers buried inside his body. The heat and slickness and urgency of it all, and the way Lucifer had trembled under his touch as he came.

Sam was done with trying not to think about it. Last time, he’d spent days touching the mark Lucifer had sucked into his skin. Now, he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the place where Lucifer’s neck met his shoulder, worrying at the skin with his teeth and sucking hard enough to bruise. Lucifer made a small sound in his throat, almost surprised. The first time this evening he’d seemed anything less than perfectly in control. There was something gratifying in that, and Sam’s cock gave an appreciative twitch, half-hard in his loose desert pants.

Which were one of the way too many layers of clothing between them right now, distracting him from his distraction. Sam sat back and began to tug his shirt off over his head—and apparently Lucifer had had the same idea, because then his hands were at the front of Sam’s pants, working open the laces that held them up.

Outside, the sun had sunk behind the horizon, but even in the desert night the room was warm, and it felt good to undress, the air gentle against his bare chest. Sam tossed his shirt aside, and it landed in a heap somewhere on the other side of the room. He’d been sharing cramped quarters with Resistance comrades—not to mention Dean, ever-ready to complain at great volume about any mess—for months now, and it felt good to be careless for a moment. Freeing.

He wasn’t free. This was a mission, with no room for relaxation. Sam shouldn’t let himself forget it. But he felt free, and it was strange. Some things seemed easier around Lucifer than they did around those on his own side.

That was a dangerous thought—and anyway, he had more immediate concerns. The way things were going, Sam was going to find himself completely naked before Lucifer had shed a stitch of clothing, and that was just unacceptable. He pushed Lucifer’s hands away—not hard, but firmly, and that earned him an interested look, which he set aside in his mind for future reference. Right now, though, he busied himself with the fasteners of Lucifer’s overshirt, working them open one by one as they moved against each other. His cock gave a throb at the friction and he chased it with a roll of his hips while Lucifer finally succeeded in opening Sam’s trousers and palmed him through his underclothes.

The sensation—the warm, insistent stroke of Lucifer’s hand—was enough to make him pause a moment, eyes rolling back in his head as he simply felt, distracted for a moment from his mission and how terribly wrong it had gone.

Beneath him, Lucifer gave a hum of amusement. 

At the sound, it all came back. The peril of Sam’s position; the fact of who he was in bed with. All those nights when he’d woken up from bloody dreams and told himself that next time he wouldn’t let Lucifer walk away. Now, Lucifer looked up at him with heavy-lidded eyes, the curve of his mouth still not exactly mocking—but it was close enough. Sam caught his hands and pinned them to the bed, and leaned in to kiss the look off his face.

Lucifer seemed to catch his shift in mood. For a moment he stilled, eyes opening wide—and then he went with it, kissing back hard, sucking on Sam’s tongue. When Sam bit at his lower lip, he heard Lucifer’s breath catch in his chest, and pulled back to find the smirk finally gone.

The curiosity that had replaced it felt realer, somehow. Lucifer’s eyes, intent on his face; the kiss-reddened shine of his mouth in the dim light. The sight made something loosen up in Sam’s chest, made him feel a little more like they were just two people going to bed together, not a king and his captive. (Dangerous, pointed out a voice in the back of his mind, and he ignored it.) At the same time, it sent a jolt of arousal straight through him, and he scrambled to get rid of the rest of their garments. Lucifer didn’t laugh at him this time, just wriggled obligingly out of his clothes.

They were pressed skin-to-skin, then, and Sam drew in a sharp breath at the sensation of body heat and friction when their cocks slid together. He just went with it for a moment, slow rolls of his hips, lazy drags of his lips, and a slow fire burning in his belly all the while.

The thing about fire was, even when it was slow, it consumed. This—the movement of skin against skin, drawn out as long as he could bear it—wasn’t enough for long. He needed more. And apparently Lucifer had had the same idea, because he slid one hand down between their bodies, wrapping his fingers around Sam’s length and his own both at once.

Sam bit back a gasp at the welcome touch, thrusting up into Lucifer’s grip almost involuntarily—but this time, he didn’t get a smirk in return. Beneath him, Lucifer’s eyes fluttered closed and he bit his lip, a little lost in pleasure himself. The sight was arresting, and for a moment all Sam could do was stare.

Then he leaned across, found the bottle of oil on the nightstand, and managed to regain his composure long enough to pry out the stopper without spilling it everywhere. It was warm when he drizzled a little onto his palm, and slick against his skin when he reached down between them and curled his own hand around both their lengths, interrupting Lucifer’s lazy touches. Lucifer gave over to him willingly enough, arching up into his touch, his cock twitching lightly in Sam’s grip. His eyes were still closed.

Maybe, if Sam was honest with himself, it wasn’t such a mystery why he’d been unable to put Lucifer from his mind. Because this—having the King of the North pinned beneath him, his smug composure wavering as Sam began to move—was like nothing he’d felt before.

He dispensed with the slow pace Lucifer had set and began to stroke them both fast and none too gently. Lucifer’s hands came up to grab his shoulders, fingernails digging in hard enough to leave marks, and the small pain sent sparks down Sam’s spine. He pushed back, leaned in to press their mouths together in a punishing kiss, lost in the hot slide of skin on skin, the desperate way they moved against one another, slippery with oil and pre-come.

It was—yeah, it was about the best distraction he could have come up with. Still wasn’t enough, though.

Lucifer kissed him back, hard and urgent, thrusting up into his fist, one ankle hooked around the back of Sam’s thigh so that his legs fell open. Almost an invitation.

Careful again, Sam stopped what he was doing, biting off his own groan of frustration at the loss of friction. Lucifer’s eyes flew open.

“What are you—?” It had been meant for a demand, Sam thought, but the strain in Lucifer’s voice made it something less certain, and Sam felt a small pang of triumph at the sound.

“You’ll see,” he said, and reached for the oil again, pouring a generous measure over his fingers and reaching down between them again—down and back, until Lucifer’s breath hitched in his chest at the first press of Sam’s finger to his entrance.

Sam paused, just briefly. It had been two years since their last encounter, after all. People, and their preferences, did change.

“Do you want—?” His own voice came out a little breathless, his sentence trailing off, but it didn’t seem to matter. Lucifer looked him straight in the eyes.

“I _want_ you to stop making me wait.”

That was all Sam needed. And, he noted, with a small flare of relief, proof that his distraction was working. 

He pushed inside slowly, as much to show that he wouldn’t be ordered around as to give Lucifer the chance to get used to the feeling. Not that it seemed to matter; Lucifer gave no sign of discomfort, just a small, blissful sigh and a hint of a smirk as he pushed back shamelessly into the touch.

That smirk, Sam decided, had to go. There was something intoxicating about the sight, the feeling, the heat of Lucifer’s body, felt from the inside, and he was perilously close to losing sight of his purpose here. It didn’t really matter, he guessed, so long as the distraction worked—but he couldn’t let this be one-sided. 

He gave up on taking things slowly, and ignored his own aching arousal in favor of working in two fingers, then three, giving rough pumps of his hand until Lucifer trembled around him, eyes falling closed, a pink flush working its way up his pale torso. For a moment, Sam went still, three fingers still buried inside of Lucifer, taking in the sight. After all, it was unlikely this would ever happen again. And yet, impossible as it felt, this was neither god nor monster who lay spread open beneath him. Just a human being, warm to the touch and thoroughly confusing to every sense.

Lucifer’s eyes snapped open. Sam blinked hard and met his gaze, feeling, despite their positions, like a child caught stealing sweets.

“Something wrong?” Lucifer’s amusement made its way into his voice.

Sam ducked his head. “No. Just, uh—just looking.”

Lucifer sat up, curled a hand around the back of Sam’s neck, running gentle fingers through the short hair there, and kissed him deeply. They both lingered a moment, simply holding onto the feeling. Then they broke away from one another, and Lucifer was looking at him with heat, his thumb brushing Sam’s cheek as his hand traveled downward.

“I appreciate the compliment,” he murmured, breath whispering hot against Sam’s ear, “but I’d have you do more than just look.”

If Sam had had any misconceptions about his meaning, the hand that wrapped around his cock soon put them to rest. He gave an involuntary thrust up into Lucifer’s grip, eyes rolling back in his head at the contact as Lucifer stroked him firmly. His hand was calloused, more a soldier’s than a king’s—and somehow that made him more real, too, human and present after the years he’d spent haunting Sam’s thoughts.

Momentarily distracted, Sam found himself startled by the warm, slick touch of oil. He blinked, and found Lucifer looking him in the eyes.

His smile had softened. For the space of a heartbeat, it was something small and genuine that made Sam gaze back at him in surprise.

Only for the space of a heartbeat. Then Lucifer glanced down, with a pointed raise of his eyebrow, and Sam took the hint, pulling his fingers out slowly as Lucifer slicked him up. Lucifer was on him, them, climbing into his lap and lining himself up and biting his lip as he finally, finally sank down onto Sam’s cock.

Both of them held there for a moment, breathing through it, as still as if caught in amber. Then Lucifer caught his eye, a hint of tease showing through as he caught his breath, and said, “I still don’t like waiting, Sam.”

No more teasing. Sam gathered his strength, his legs only shaking a little, and surged forward, pushing Lucifer onto his back and driving into him hard, pressing their mouths together in messy desperation. Lucifer kissed back just as hard, one hand coming up to clutch at Sam’s shoulder, the other gripping his ass and urging him deeper. 

It was all urgency after that. There was nothing but the heat and the friction, bruising kisses and hands that gripped hard enough to hurt. He gave no quarter, fucking Lucifer hard enough that the bed rattled beneath them, until finally—finally—the knowing look was gone from his face and instead he gazed up at Sam with his eyes wide, studying him like a map of the heavens, and Sam’s name was on his lips as he came. 

It sounded somewhere between a prayer and a curse—but Sam had no time to think on that, no time to think about much at all, because then he was following after with a final jerk of his hips, the room and Lucifer’s face swimming before his eyes.

 

\----

 

Sam felt cold when he came back to himself. The sun had set completely while he’d been wrapped up in Lucifer, and now the breeze that stirred the gauzy drapes was cool. He was alone on the bed, no warm body pressed against him. Instead, Lucifer stood apart from him, before the window, looking out into the night as he dressed.

For half a moment, Sam was seized by the impulse to get to his feet and press himself close again, the way he might with any other bed-partner, with the night still so young. Then he remembered himself, and all his earlier uncertainty came flooding back.

Two years ago, he’d left Lucifer to wake cold and alone, the corpses of his men beyond the chamber doors. Had all that had just passed between them, all Lucifer’s talk of destiny, been distraction? Would he set foot outside the chamber and be met with a dozen steel blades ready to run him through?

Would he set foot outside at all?

The loose-limbed sleepiness he’d felt a moment ago vanished, and Sam climbed to his feet. Lucifer stood silhouetted against the window, his expression difficult to make out, and for a moment Sam didn’t dare speak. They’d been so close, just a minute ago. Now, he could almost believe that Lucifer was himself one of the Hana; that he’d vanish like sand through an hourglass if Sam reached out to touch him.

Lucifer turned back to him, then, and the illusion broke—replaced by more immediate foreboding.

The way Lucifer was looking at him—well, it was strange. Difficult to place, with his face half in shadow, but if pressed Sam might have said that he looked regretful. 

Beyond the window, he heard boots in the street.

For half a second, Lucifer didn’t meet his eye. Then he raised his head, looked straight at Sam, and took his hand. 

Something smooth slid into Sam’s hand. A cylinder of carved wood—one made to hold a letter. The cap bore a painted insignia—Lucifer’s—in white and gold. Sam blinked down at it, uncomprehending.

“Safe passage.” Lucifer smiled, though there seemed little mirth in it. “You did the same for me, once.”

Sam stared at him. Then pushed the drapes aside, careless of his nudity, and stared out into the street. Soldiers with faces hidden under desert wrappings patrolled the street. There was shouting from the house opposite—one where two of his comrades had hidden out, Sam realized, with a sinking feeling—and a struggling figure was pulled from the doorway and bundled off down the street.

His glance downward was involuntary. “Tamara—”

“Your comrades won’t be treated badly.” It wasn’t quite an apology. “And when Uriel goes free, they’ll be returned to you. I’m not my brother, Sam.”

“You said they were supposed to wait for your signal.” It came out sounding like an accusation, and he guessed maybe it was. He could hardly have made a difference, but he still felt as though he had been lied to.

“They were,” Lucifer told him, “and they did.” He gestured at the lamp on the windowsill. “I gave it earlier, while we talked.” 

He’d turned out the lamp, as though it was an afterthought, as they spoke. That had been the signal.

“But I thought—” Sam broke off, feeling suddenly stupid.

“That I was distracted, and that your comrades would have time to get away?” It should have been mockery, but Lucifer’s tone wasn’t unkind. “Fool me once.”

“Exactly.” Sam’s voice cracked a little. For his captured friends—and because he could already picture the way Dean was going to look at him when he returned. As though he was still no more than a boy, not to be trusted to run a mission alone. “It was me who got in your way last time. Why am I the one you’re letting go?”

Still the same faint smile. “Because fate has something in store for us. And wouldn’t it be foolish to get in its way before I know what it is?”

Sam didn’t have an answer to that. Not one that it would be wise to speak aloud, anyway.

Once more, Lucifer pushed the letter into his hands. “Get dressed,” he told Sam. “And for the love of all the gods, be gone by the time I get back.”

 

\----

 

Earlier in the evening, they’d tethered their horses beside the lake, in easy reach of water. Chances were, they’d already been found—but without a horse, Sam would have no choice but to hide out until Lucifer and his men had left the town, if he were to avoid drawing undue attention to himself. Lucifer had told him the letter granted safe passage, but Sam had hardly had time to stop and read it, and taking Lucifer’s word for it hardly seemed like a good idea right now.

Before he made it to the lake, though, a white-clad figure loomed up in his path, its pale desert wrappings making it ghostly in the gloom. Two more materialized out of the dark, flanking it on either side.

All three carried swords. They stood facing Sam, but he knew without looking that the cloaks on their backs would bear that same white-and-gold insignia.

“And where do you think you’re going?” The figure in front had spoken. She pulled her wrappings down to reveal a pale heart-shaped face, wisps of dark hair escaping at the sides, and a grin of anticipation.

He found his voice. “So, which one are you? Lilith or Meg?”

Her hand went to her sword. “You like to know who you’re being bested by? I can respect that.” She cocked her head. “Meg.”

Sam forced a smile, and hoped it looked more confident than he felt. “No,” he said, “but if you’re planning to attack me, I’d like to know who dares disobey the King.” He drew himself up, and held out the letter.

Meg frowned slightly, but took it and unscrewed the cap. As she withdrew the paper, something dropped from the cylinder and hit the sand with a soft noise.

Sam didn’t glance down at it; just kept watching her expression, his heart thudding in his chest so hard he was sure it would give him away.

But, after an agonizing moment, Meg gave a short nod, and slid the letter back into its tube. “It’s authentic,” she said, looking more than slightly put out at being deprived of a fight. “You’re free to go.”

Sam exhaled, hard. He almost forgot the little object that had fallen to the floor, until his foot landed on it in the dark and—to the muffled laughter of Meg and her cohorts—he almost lost his footing. 

Recovering himself, he knelt and scooped it up in his hand, not stopping to look again until he’d left the three soldiers far behind.

It was warm and rough in his hand, and perhaps some part of his mind had already figured out what it was, because he wasn’t surprised when he looked down and found himself holding the dust rose that had sat on the windowsill. Lucifer must have slipped it in with the letter as he dressed.

Sam turned it over in his hand. Then he lifted his arm and drew it back, wondering how far the damned thing would get if he tossed it out into the desert night.

Something held him back.

Lucifer had kept his frozen star—as a reminder of something he didn’t yet know. Perhaps Sam needed a reminder of his own. He’d been lucky tonight, and stupid. Kings were not to be trusted.

 

\----

 

He was still clutching it tight when he reached the place where the horses had been tethered.

The spot was deserted, and Sam’s heart sank. What was the use of Lucifer’s letting him go, if he had no way of leaving the oasis? He’d have to hide out in the town, and try to blend in until the oasis was free again.

Hoofbeats sounded in his ears, then, and he span to face the sound, heart hammering in his ears at the prospect of another confrontation.

“Sam!”

Relief flooded through him at the sound of Ruby’s voice—and again at the sight of her, astride her horse and leading his own behind her. 

“I thought you were captured for sure.” She waited for him to mount his horse, and then leaned across to squeeze his hand. “Thank the gods.”

Sam looked down, aware that his smile must look pained. “Pretty sure I’m the only one who got away. What happened to you?”

“The same.” Ruby sighed. “It was just dumb luck. The heat was getting to me, and I was out back taking a breath of air when—when they came.”

Sam patted her arm, though there was little reassurance he could offer. “It’s not your fault.”

She nodded. “I know. I just—how did they know to expect us?”

“Who knows?” Sam looked down again; were he still standing, he thought he would have found himself shuffling his feet in discomfort. “Lucifer’s a powerful sorcerer. Perhaps his people know more than we thought.”

“You’re probably right.” Ruby smiled at him, then. “Come on,” she said. “We need to get out of here. This wasn’t a win, but—we’re alive. That’s something, right?”

“Right,” Sam echoed, doubtfully.

If Ruby heard his uncertainty, she didn’t say so, just spurred her horse into a trot and turned him in the direction of the desert trail. Sam hesitated only a moment, then followed.

The dust rose weighed heavy in his pocket the whole way home.

**Author's Note:**

> Talk to me? [DW](http://anactoria.dreamwidth.org) | [Tumblr](http://anactorya.tumblr.com)


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